The Adventure of Red Pete
by Dr4m4g33k
Summary: Five people dead, with nothing at all in common except that they all died of... anaphylactic shock? Casefic, with a side of Johnlock Established relationship, non-graphic slash. **NOTE: For those of you following, I corrected the awkward cutoff in chapter 2. No idea how that happened, but the rest of the chapter is up now.**
1. Chapter 1

The Adventure of Red Pete

A/N: Alright… I have a vague sense of how I want this story to go, but I'm not convinced that it'll pan out the way I want. I've done enough research to know that what I'm suggesting in this story is not medically possible, but when has that ever gotten in the way of fiction writers the world over?

Anyway, we'll see how this goes. Time-wise, I've set this story after my previous fiction "Death is In The Air" (which, in turn, was after HoB) but before the Fall. I don't think I'll have anything by way of spoilers, and reading my previous fic is in no way needed to understand this one. I'm just using that as an example of how I came to use a Johnlock established relationship in this story.

Also, on the way of the rating… I really feel like all Sherlock fanfics should be at least rated T, since he is a detective and works with, y'know… murders. There may be some non-graphic slash (only because I'm absolute crap at writing graphic slash, no matter how much I love to read it.) but if anything changes, I'll update the rating as needed.

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John's alarm clock beeped most irritatingly, in Sherlock's opinion. He groaned in displeasure, pulling his pillow over his head while the beastly noise wailed away from the nightstand on John's side of the bed.

"Will you shut that ghastly thing up?" The detective's words were considerably muffled by the pillow, and John just chuckled. He snapped off the alarm and smiled at his love. Really, Sherlock was not a morning person, but he seemed so human when he was still half-asleep, John was willing to forgive his rudeness. Of course, he had plenty of experience with that signature rudeness, and he was inclined to forgive it most of the time, so perhaps this wasn't really the best example.

John pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's right shoulder blade, and moved to get up. Sherlock made a token attempt to reach out and try to pull John back into bed, but he knew it would be fruitless. Today was Monday, which meant that John had a full shift at the surgery. Financially, they didn't really need him to keep the job, but Sherlock knew that, in his heart of hearts, John could never give up being a doctor. He was a healer first, and a soldier second, and everything else was just tinsel. So, if his blogger wanted to keep up the charade that he kept the position for his "last shred of independence," that was fine. It was _all fine_.

The man himself pulled on his dressing gown, and padded his stocky self into the bathroom to take a shower. Sherlock momentarily considered joining him, knowing the sight of water cascading down his lithe body would give John something to think about during the day, but he decided against it. Oddly enough, being in a relationship with John Watson seemed to take very little maintenance. Well, actually that wasn't odd at all when one considers the simplicity of the ex-army doctor. He had made sure, in the first few weeks of their relationship that Sherlock knew he could delete almost everything he knew (or rather, _thought_ he knew) about how relationships were supposed to go. John held no truck with frivolous trappings of what others called romance. He didn't need the consulting detective to wind himself up trying to figure out what constituted a big enough argument to buy flowers, or if he was supposed to give his sweetheart a heart-shaped box of chocolates _only_ on Valentine's Day, or if that was something that was expected more often. He'd laid out, in no uncertain terms, that there was no need for any of those things. He wanted Sherlock, exactly as he was, and everything that came with that. The younger man heard and understood, but he'd also learned that when he tried to do something for John because he _wanted_ to… well, pupils certainly don't dilate for the sake of the thing. That suited both of them well, he thought; the little things to show that he cared, and John didn't even seem to mind when he did them wrong. More often than not, he wouldn't even point it out that Sherlock had messed it up, and that was part of the way he showed he cared. (Still, John couldn't really be blamed for surreptitiously checking the first meal Sherlock had ever cooked for him for anything that looked like it may have once spoken English. Even the detective had been a little concerned about that, if he were honest.)

By the time John was ready to leave for work, Sherlock was at his microscope, having given up on trying to go back to sleep. The doctor pressed a kiss to the lips of his lover, and smiled as he headed out the door.

"I'll be back about three o'clock, Sher. Don't forget that Molly said she'd pop 'round this afternoon with the results of those blood cultures you gave her on Thursday."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. "Goodbye, John." He said as he heard the door shut downstairs. Today promised to be especially boring, with no cases on and nothing interesting happening among the criminal classes. He hoped he could get through the day without shooting the wall again…

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John was seeing a seventeen year old girl out of his office, explaining to her that the bleeding she had experienced was perfectly normal, it was going to happen roughly every four weeks, and no, she wasn't going to bleed to death. He asked Sarah to escort her to the door and have a chat with Mrs. White about Carrie's situation.

_Honestly, how can she get so far into her teens without ever having heard of menstruation?_ He thought to himself. Well, Sarah was better equipped to have the conversation anyway. It didn't look like the girl's mother had been very keen on her daughter being seen by a male physician.

John sat down at his desk, and was about to buzz in for another patient, when the phone in his pocket vibrated against his leg. He'd gotten a few alerts over the last few hours, but he'd had back to back appointments, so he hadn't checked them yet. Well, there was a small lull in his day—now seemed as good a time as any. He examined the miniature screen, and smiled as he read through the messages he'd received, all from Sherlock, as predicted.

Molly dropped off blood cultures, she was insufferable. –SH

Please buy kerosene on your way home. –SH

Made tea. Not as good as when you make it for me –SH

Whatever you may think when you get home, I most certainly did not set our sofa on fire.—SH

Those burn marks have always been there. –SH

John shook his head. It was only by the grace of Mrs. Hudson's affection for his lunatic flatmate that they hadn't been evicted. He scrolled to the most recent message.

Lestrade called, wants to see me at the yard. Meet me there when you're finished with your shift. –SH

He checked his watch. Quarter of three. He buzzed for what would hopefully be his last patient of the day as he replied.

Alright. See you there. –JW

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When John arrived at Scotland Yard, Sherlock was seated before Lestrade's desk, looking over a handful of files with great intent. Greg motioned for John to come in when he noticed him through the glass. Sherlock looked up and smiled at him briefly before returning to the paperwork in his hand.

"Got a case for us, then?"

"Well, I'm not sure, actually. It might be nothing, but I thought Sherlock ought to see it."

"What d'you mean?"

Sherlock spread out the files on Lestrade's desk, along with the photos attached to them.

"Five people dead. Two women, three men, ages ranging from nineteen to sixty-one. According to the coroner, they all died of heart palpitations caused by severe allergic reactions. However, none of the victims had any history of anaphylaxis prior to their death."

"Well, do they have anything in common? Medications, anything like that?"

"None that we can tell." Greg replied. "Nothing in common at all except the cause of death."

"Well, people die of anaphylactic shock all the time, Greg. People have allergies they aren't aware of, and there isn't much that can be done." John picked up a file in each hand. "It looks like these two were even admitted to the hospital before their death. Why call us?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know. On paper, there's nothing particularly unusual about them, but I just can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. I thought Sherlock might be able to pick up something we missed."

The detective squinted at the photos provided. "I can tell you that none of them knew each other, and that this one here," He pointed to the nineteen year old male "was a med student who was going to fail his exams. But there's nothing here to suggest that there is anything connecting them." He frowned. "Still, I'll have a look into it." Sherlock gathered up the files. "I'll text you as soon as I have something."

Greg nodded and showed them out. As they climbed into a cab, John turned to his beloved. "Why'd you take the case? It looks pretty cut and dry to me. Tragic, of course, but nothing untoward."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. But if Lestrade thinks it's worth looking into… Well, he may be an idiot, but he's an idiot with good instincts. Something tells me there's more to this than some random allergic reactions."

The rest of the ride home was made in comfortable silence, and when they got home, John put a little more sugar in Sherlock's tea than usual. He had a feeling it would be a while before the man got much by way of calories in him.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Did anyone catch the second literary reference in the last chapter? You'll see that a lot, I do love easter eggs! Anyway, I struggled with this chapter, so if anyone finds something that could use improvement, I'd love to hear it.

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Sherlock was still in his Mind Palace when John went to bed. This case was a bit awkward for them, because neither of them were entirely sure there _was_ a case. Still, if there was any connection to be found, Sherlock would find it. In truth, the more John thought about it, the more he agreed with Lestrade. There was something odd that he just couldn't put his finger on. The victims were all different walks of life, different environments, different ethnicities. Healthy people, with no history of allergy issues didn't just drop dead of anaphylactic shock. But with nothing connecting them, they were at a standstill.

The next morning, John woke up to an empty bed. Sherlock's side of the bed was cold and untouched—he hadn't been to bed at all. The doctor only hoped that meant that he had something more to go on than two men's general feeling of uneasiness. As he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, he heard the front door slam and long legs pounding up the stairs to their flat. Muffled words became clearer and louder as the consulting detective wrenched open the door to their bedroom.

"John—Oh, good you're up."

"Yes. You look excited. You've got something then?"

"AB negative!"

John wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Sorry, bee what?"

"Their blood type, John! All the victims had blood type AB negative."

The doctor's eyebrows shot up. That was something special, then. "That's a very rare blood type, but it doesn't have anything to do with allergies."

"Not directly, I know, but it's all we've got to go on. I've been down to Bart's to run tests, and it's the only thing they have in common."

"You've been—hang on." John checked the clock. "It's just on seven a.m., Molly's not there yet!"

"Oh, I know. I picked the locks in the morgue and the lab last night, she won't mind." He glanced at John's look of disapproval. "Look, I did leave her a note."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Well, the note was an improvement anyway. "Fine. So what do you suggest we do next?"

"We head down to the United States Embassy."

"We—wait, what? What on earth would we go there for?"

"Oh, sorry. I should have mentioned, there's been another death. The US Ambassador's personal assistant."

"Anaphylactic shock?"

"So it would seem."

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The two men climbed out of their cab and approached the Embassy of the United States. Both sets of eyes scanned the corridors as they were led by a constable into the office where the assistant drew her final breath. Sherlock squared his shoulders as they approached the room. Now that this was a government issue, it was only a matter of time before

"Ah, dear brother. So glad you've decided to be of assistance." Mycroft's disgustingly saccharine tone greeted them with a matching smile. "And Doctor Watson, as well. A pleasure to see you again."

John shook the British Government's hand politely. "I wasn't aware that you worked closely with the Ambassador, Mycroft."

"Normally I don't, but when I heard that Sherlock was interested in… assessing the situation, I thought it would be prudent to lend my assistance."

_Translation: I'm here to keep an eye on my little brother and make sure he doesn't upset the wrong people._ Sherlock thought. Catching John's eye, he knew the underlying message hadn't been lost on the ex-soldier either.

"When was she discovered?" Sherlock directed the question at the forensics officer, blessedly Not-Anderson. He took a moment to deduce her before turning his attention back to the corpse. She was a dwarf in the most literal sense of the term, no higher than four foot eight if he had to guess. Solid build, slightly masculine features, Nordic heritage. She had a duffel bag beside her on which was embroidered "C. Littlebottom."

"Only a few hours ago." The young woman replied. She lifted herself off her stocky knees. "Symptoms consistent with a severe allergic reaction."

"Have you confirmed everything she ingested yesterday?"

The forensics officer nodded, handing over a list. "This is everything we can confirm without taking her  
to the lab. Nothing particularly unusual."

Sherlock's eyes turned to the assistant lying dead. She was clearly from the southern United States,  
Louisiana at an excellent guess. Public college educated, but she had shown great enthusiasm for her  
work, going by the relatively cheap suit that she'd kept impeccably clean. She was on the short side of

average height for a woman, five foot four, perhaps. She wore higher than average heels to seem more  
imposing, so she would be taken seriously in her line of work.

The detective glanced around the room, and something in the rubbish bin caught his eyes. He walked  
over, pulling latex glove on over his pianist's hands. Out of the bin, he plucked a glass bottle which had  
the victim's lipstick around the neck. It was a bottle of some sort of small-batch fizzy drink. A few drops  
of the bright red, sugary liquid were pooled at the bottom. The label proclaimed the beverage to be  
called "Red Pete," And sported a logo of a fisherman, with harpoon in hand, on the front below the  
moniker. John took the bottle from his hands.

"I've seen this stuff before. Not a big-name company, obviously, but you can find it in small grocer's or  
specialty shops."

Sherlock sniffed the bottle. Various flavorings, red dye, and something almost metallic underneath it  
all—though, that could just as easily have been from the bin the bottle was in, he supposed. He checked  
the list of what that victim had taken into her body before her death. About halfway down, along with  
the contents of her lunch, the soft drink was listed. He carefully inspected the clear glass of the bottle  
before putting it back where he found it.

Just like that, he turned on his heel, grabbing John's wrist as he spun around.

"Let's go, John. I have everything I need here." He paused briefly as they passed his brother. "Mycroft,  
stay out of my cases in the future, your oiliness is off-putting when I'm trying to think. Good luck with  
the diet."

John glanced backwards as Sherlock dragged him toward the street, just getting a tiny glimpse of  
Mycroft's displeased sneer.

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In the cab, John watched as Sherlock fired off a text to Lestrade, asking for addresses of the victim's  
homes and workplaces. His mobile disappeared into the woolen recesses of his coat, and he turned to  
the doctor again.

"One of the victims had clear glass shards in his heel that match that glass bottle. It looked like he's  
shattered it, and accidentally stepped on them before his death. I didn't think anything of it at the time,  
but now this…" He trailed off, lost in thought.

"So if we can find more of these bottles, you think it could be the cause of their death?"

"Or related to it, at least."

"Even for you, Sherlock, that's a bit of a leap."

"I know, but the blood type alone isn't enough for us to go on. We need to take anything we can get to  
connect them."

John nodded. "Well, If you go, I'll follow. I always do."

Sherlock, for his part, just smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

Adventure of Red Pete: Ch. 3

A/N: Sorry it's been so long getting this chapter up! Flu and life laid me low for awhile, and have you ever tried to be creative while sick? It was not a happening thing. Anyway, here you are, Reviews make me sing and do a little happy dance.

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That afternoon, the consulting detective and his blogger went all around the city, examining the various flats, dorm rooms, bedsits, and offices of each of their remaining five victims. It was an exhausting back-and-forth expedition, but rewarding nonetheless, because every single victim was found to have consumed Red Pete within twenty-four hours prior to their deaths.

Sherlock pulled the glass bottle of the offending fizzy drink from the rubbish bin outside the home of their forty-five year old housewife victim. If any of the neighbors on the attractive residential street noticed them rifling through the garbage, they chose to ignore it. The detective dropped the bottle into a plastic evidence bag, eyeing the sticky, drying remnants of liquid at the bottom of the glass.

"I'll have Lestrade collect the bottle from the Embassy, and bring it to Baker Street. With any good fortune, we'll be able to determine what's in this stuff that's killing people."

"Hopefully before it kills anyone else."

Sherlock nodded as they walked back toward the main road to hail a cab back home. John looked at him expectantly.

"Do you have a theory as to what's going on?"

"I have a hypothesis, yes."

"Well? Poison, maybe?"

"Maybe…" They climbed into the cab, and Sherlock steepled his fingers over his lips. "But I don't think so. This drink isn't that uncommon, people other than our victims may have consumed it, so why aren't more people dead?" He pulled the bottle back out of his pocket, pointing at the tiny printed numbers on the side of the label. "This bottle's batch number is different from the one in the embassy, so whatever it is that's causing the deaths is going out on at least _most_ if not _all_ the bottles leaving the manufacturer's."

"But only six deaths… Even though they all have the same blood type, they can't be the only ones with AB negative drinking this stuff. Even then, we should have dozens of victims, so why just these people?"

"Exactly. We don't have all the data necessary to answer that. There is some other factor we aren't aware of."

Sherlock's phone bleeped and it was fished out of his pocket. He frowned as he read the illuminated text on the tiny screen. John gave him a quizzical look, and gently touched the detective's shoulder. Sherlock looked up, and handed his phone over to the doctor so he could read the message.

_Four full bottles were found in the assistant's desk. I'm bringing those to you as well. –GL_

John met his lover's eyes and shrugged. "Four more bottles, so?" Without answering, Sherlock leaned over to the driver and instructed him to turn around, and take them back the way they came. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I need to check something. Lestrade may have just handed us our missing factor."

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Once again, John found himself staring at the back of Sherlock's coat as he rifled through the housewife's rubbish bins with renewed fervor. This time he was flinging refuse behind him, forcing John to duck to avoid being hit by browning apple cores, empty coffee cups and soiled diapers.

"Sherlock, are you planning on including me in this anytime soon?"

"Aha!" Sherlock wriggled out from the bin holding aloft what looked, at first glance, like a piece of folded cardboard. He handed it to John to examine, and it proved to be a flattened bottle carrier—the same kind that half-dozens of beer come in at the shops. The same alarming shade of red and fisherman logo that adorned the labels of fizzy drink was also emblazoned on the carrier.

"Okay…" said John slowly "So they bought packs of it?"

"As opposed to single bottles, yes. This might just do it!"

John looked at him blankly, and Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. "Our victims didn't just drink _one_ bottle before their deaths. They've been drinking multiple bottles over time. Since the rubbish hasn't been picked up, this-" He indicated the bottle carrier "couldn't have been thrown out more than six days ago."

"But they might not all have been drunk by the victim- they could have been shared."

"Then why isn't anyone else in the family dead? Blood types are passed down from parent to child, we know the victim who lived here had two teenage children, plus the infant." He stepped over the piles of trash he'd created. "If it only took one bottle, and there was more than one person here with the same blood type, then we would have had three victims in this family."

John nodded. "Alright, fair enough. So you think that everyone with AB negative, who drinks multiple bottles of this stuff, is just going to snuff it?"

"It is a fairly specific set of circumstances. And it's the best lead we've got yet. I'll run some tests when we get home."

The cabbie looked distinctly sorry he'd waited for them when he saw Sherlock flick a banana peel off the shoulder of his coat before sliding into the back seat. They set off for home for what John hoped would be the last time that day. The detective looked very pleased at the prospect of a few hours behind his microscope, and possibly even some answers.

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It didn't even take a few hours for Sherlock to be glaring at his notes in distaste. He'd checked the samples from both the full and the empty bottles over and over again, but he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Someone had to have noticed it before now!

John was silently making tea when he saw his flatmate rise and cross over to the fridge where there was still one unopened, untested bottle of Red Pete waiting. Sherlock picked up the bottle, and examined it the way he did everything else—thoroughly. He held it up to the light, looked at the contents through is pocket magnifier, turned the bottle upside down, all the while humming thoughtfully. He prized the little metal cap off the neck, and sniffed into the liquid… vaguely cherry flavoring, atomizing carbon dioxide, and that faint metallic scent he'd noticed earlier. Before John could stop him, Sherlock raised the bottle to his lips, and took a sip.

The doctor grabbed at his wrist, "Sherlock what the HELL do you think you're doing? That stuff has sodding killed people!"

"First, John, my blood type is B positive, so it's unlikely I'll fall victim to whatever killed the others. Secondly, I had to taste it to be sure of what's in it."

"Alright, then," John snapped irritably "What's in it then? What stupid poison did you just risk your life for?"

"It's not poison. It's blood."


	4. Chapter 4

Red Pete- Ch. 4

A/N: I know, I know. I'm a terrible person and deserve to be punished. This story is not progressing as quickly as I wanted it to, but here's hoping a little time before my keyboard will yield some results. Also, there was no literary easter egg in the last chapter, because I'm a clotpole, and I forgot. Will remedy this starting now.

And I said it in the first chapter, I'll say it again. Sherlock is a scientist, not me. What I am proposing is not only not physically possible, but you can assume anything science-y that I write here is complete gibberish. Do not attempt to make sense of it, because you will only frustrate yourself.

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John knitted his brow, clearly taken aback. "Blood? You can't be serious."

"I've run these tests over and over. It _is_ blood, I'm sure."

"Is it human?"

"Yes. It's a very small amount, less than one-half of one percent, but it's there. I'm running tests to determine what blood type it is, but the chemicals in the soda may have ruined the amino acid chains. If that's the case, I can't be totally sure."

"But the reactions in the victims make sense, then. Ingesting or being transfused with the wrong blood type can sometimes cause reactions very similar to what we've seen. It's why blood typing is so critical—getting types mixed up will mean you've taken a patient who _might_ die to one who _will_ die." John glanced over at Sherlock's slides, trying to glean some sense of meaning from them. "But if the amounts are so small… Then it still doesn't work. It would take… at least a quarter-pint for anyone to feel any effects!"

"Well, one bottle houses a small amount, but the base components of blood stay in the drinker's system longer than the beverage does." Sherlock gazed at the army doctor expectantly. John's face relaxed, and the he closed his eyes as realization washed over him.

"So someone who has been drinking it over and over again for days or weeks—"

"Would have enough in their system to kill them, yes."

"Jesus Christ…" John exhaled and ran his hand over his eyes. "So what do we do now?"

"This can't have gotten here by accident. Or at least, it's very unlikely it was by accident."

"So… a field trip to the manufacturer's then?"

"Yes. What sort of disguise do you think would be appropriate for a bottling plant?"

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The Red Pete bottling plant in Park Royal was a surprisingly clean and cheerful-looking place. The management had clearly made an effort to make this a bearable place to work, painting the walls with bright, happy seascapes; many of which had cartoonish pirate ships afloat on the waves. One beach scene in particular seemed to depict a teeny tiny seaside village, and a giant tied down with rope and stakes off in the distance. Sherlock sneered in distaste, smoothing his now-gelled-back hair behind his ear.

"You'd think they were employing primary school children, the way they've decorated."

"I suppose it's better than just staring at brick or concrete all day. When you work in a factory, I imagine a little lighthearted childishness is welcome." John shifted uncomfortably in his blazer. They had to look businesslike, he supposed, but that didn't make him any happier to be in the damn thing. He longed for his warm jumpers back at Baker Street.

"Lighthearted fine, but they could have given first-year-chic a miss."

The pair approached the office of the floor manager, and rapped smartly on the door.

"C-c-come in!"

Behind the desk was a nervous, sweaty man in a cheap shirt and tie. Sherlock looked him over with gimlet eyes. He was mid-forties, carried several extra stones that his doctor was encouraging him to lose, and had gone bald prematurely. He twisted his tie in his hands as they entered his office. Sherlock put on a shark-like smile, and extended his hand.

"Mr. Townsend. I'm Sherlock Holmes, we spoke on the phone."

"Yes! Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes, hello." He took Sherlock's hand in his damp, clammy grasp. The detective congratulated himself internally for not flinching away in disgust. Townsend released Sherlock's hand, and reached to shake John's hand. "And, I'm sorry, Mr…?"

"Watson. John Watson, I'm a colleague of Mr. Holmes'." John bit his tongue—couldn't correct the title without blowing their cover.

"A p-pleasure Mr. Watson." Townsend let go of John's hand as well. "I wish we could be meeting under happier circumstances. As I told you on the phone, we work very hard to maintain good work conditions, here. I can't imagine why someone would lodge a complaint."

"We're hoping it won't come to anything, Mr. Townsend. Sometimes we get these reports and it's just someone looking to stir up trouble, trying to find a reason for a lawsuit. Just coming in it looks like you won't have anything to worry about."

"Well, that's good to hear." The relief in the manager's voice was almost tangible.

"Of course," John said amicably "We'll still need to look around the factory floor—ask a few questions of your staff. Due diligence and all that."

"Of course, of course. Right this way, gentlemen."

Townsend came around his desk, and led them back out the office door, and approached another set of much heavier, industrial steel doors—from behind which the unmistakable roar and clank of large machinery emanated. Once past the threshold, their eyes were met with a much larger set of works than they expected, especially for a relatively small company. The floor was _huge_, sprawling and seemed to overflow with employees, all in their hairnets, sanitary foodservice gloves, and white coats. The room was at least the size of a city block- probably much more, and had what looked like nearly two hundred workers. Sherlock leaned over to John and muttered in his ear.

"I think we may be here a bit longer than we planned…"


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